fancy to a red overstuffed chair. He sat on it and patted the sides, as if getting a feel for its construction. He sat back and closed his eyes. In horror Goodcastle noted the man’s right hand disappeared out of sight momentarily and subtly plucked a piece of the stuffing out of the cushion.
The substance was desiccated horsehair, which surely would match the piece found in Robert Mayhew’s apartment.
The inspector rose and prowled up and down the aisles for some moments longer. Finally he glanced toward the counter. “You are Mr. Goodcastle?”
“I am indeed,” the shopkeeper said, for to deny it would merely arouse suspicion at a later time. He wondered if he was about to be arrested on the spot. His heart beat fiercely.
“You have a fine shop here.” The inspector was attempting to be amiable but Goodcastle detected the coldness of an inquisitor in the eyes.
“Thank you, sir. I should be most glad to assist you.” His palms began to sweat and he felt ill within the belly.
“No, thank you. In fact, I must be going.”
“Good day. Do return.”
“I shall,” he said and walked outside into the brisk spring air.
Goodcastle stepped back into the shadows between two armoires and looked out.
No!
His worst fears were realized. The man had started across the street, glanced back into the store and, not seeing the proprietor, knelt, presumably to tie his shoelace. But the lace was perfectly secured already; the point of this gesture was to pinch up some of the brick dust from the construction currently being undertaken—to match against similar dust Goodcastle had left on the rungs of the ladder or inside the apartment in Charing Cross, he thought in agony. The policeman deposited the dust in a small envelope and then continued on his way, with the jaunty step of a man who has just found a wad of banknotes on the street.
Panic fluttered within Goodcastle. He understood his arrest was imminent. So, it’s to be a race to escape the clutch of the law. Every second counted.
He strode to the back door of the shop and opened it. “Markham,” he called into the back room, where the round, bearded craftsman was putting a coat of lacquer on a Chinese-style bureau. “Mind the shop for an hour or two. I have an urgent errand. “
Bill Sloat was hunched over his cluttered, ale-stained table at the Green Man Pub, surrounded by a half dozen of his cronies, all of them dirty and dim, half-baked Falstaffs, their only earthly reason for being here that they did Sloat’s bidding as quickly and as ruthlessly as he ordered.
The gang-man, dressed in an unwashed old sack suit, looked up as Peter Goodcastle approached and pierced a bit of apple with his sharp toad-sticker, eating the mealy fruit slowly. He didn’t know much about Goodcastle except that he was one of the few merchants on Great Portland Street who coughed up his weekly ten quid—which he called a “business fee”—and didn’t need a good kick in the arse or slash with a razor to be reminded of it.
The shopkeeper stopped at the table and nodded at the fat man, who muttered, “What’s brought you ’ere, m’lord?”
The title was ironic, of course. Goodcastle didn’t have a drop of noble blood in his limp veins. But in a city where class was the main yardstick by which to measure a man, more so even than money, Goodcastle swam ina very different stream than Sloat. The gang-man’s East End upbringing had been grim and he’d never gotten a lick of boost, unlike Goodcastle, whose parents had come from a pleasant part of Surrey. Which was reason enough for Sloat to dislike him, despite the fact he coughed up his quid on time.
“I need to speak to you.”
“Do you now? Speak away, mate. Me ear’s yours.”
“Alone.”
Sloat harpooned another piece of apple and chewed it down then muttered, “Leave us, boys.” He grunted toward the ruffians around the table, and, snickering or grumbling, they moved away with their pints.
He looked
The substance was desiccated horsehair, which surely would match the piece found in Robert Mayhew’s apartment.
The inspector rose and prowled up and down the aisles for some moments longer. Finally he glanced toward the counter. “You are Mr. Goodcastle?”
“I am indeed,” the shopkeeper said, for to deny it would merely arouse suspicion at a later time. He wondered if he was about to be arrested on the spot. His heart beat fiercely.
“You have a fine shop here.” The inspector was attempting to be amiable but Goodcastle detected the coldness of an inquisitor in the eyes.
“Thank you, sir. I should be most glad to assist you.” His palms began to sweat and he felt ill within the belly.
“No, thank you. In fact, I must be going.”
“Good day. Do return.”
“I shall,” he said and walked outside into the brisk spring air.
Goodcastle stepped back into the shadows between two armoires and looked out.
No!
His worst fears were realized. The man had started across the street, glanced back into the store and, not seeing the proprietor, knelt, presumably to tie his shoelace. But the lace was perfectly secured already; the point of this gesture was to pinch up some of the brick dust from the construction currently being undertaken—to match against similar dust Goodcastle had left on the rungs of the ladder or inside the apartment in Charing Cross, he thought in agony. The policeman deposited the dust in a small envelope and then continued on his way, with the jaunty step of a man who has just found a wad of banknotes on the street.
Panic fluttered within Goodcastle. He understood his arrest was imminent. So, it’s to be a race to escape the clutch of the law. Every second counted.
He strode to the back door of the shop and opened it. “Markham,” he called into the back room, where the round, bearded craftsman was putting a coat of lacquer on a Chinese-style bureau. “Mind the shop for an hour or two. I have an urgent errand. “
Bill Sloat was hunched over his cluttered, ale-stained table at the Green Man Pub, surrounded by a half dozen of his cronies, all of them dirty and dim, half-baked Falstaffs, their only earthly reason for being here that they did Sloat’s bidding as quickly and as ruthlessly as he ordered.
The gang-man, dressed in an unwashed old sack suit, looked up as Peter Goodcastle approached and pierced a bit of apple with his sharp toad-sticker, eating the mealy fruit slowly. He didn’t know much about Goodcastle except that he was one of the few merchants on Great Portland Street who coughed up his weekly ten quid—which he called a “business fee”—and didn’t need a good kick in the arse or slash with a razor to be reminded of it.
The shopkeeper stopped at the table and nodded at the fat man, who muttered, “What’s brought you ’ere, m’lord?”
The title was ironic, of course. Goodcastle didn’t have a drop of noble blood in his limp veins. But in a city where class was the main yardstick by which to measure a man, more so even than money, Goodcastle swam ina very different stream than Sloat. The gang-man’s East End upbringing had been grim and he’d never gotten a lick of boost, unlike Goodcastle, whose parents had come from a pleasant part of Surrey. Which was reason enough for Sloat to dislike him, despite the fact he coughed up his quid on time.
“I need to speak to you.”
“Do you now? Speak away, mate. Me ear’s yours.”
“Alone.”
Sloat harpooned another piece of apple and chewed it down then muttered, “Leave us, boys.” He grunted toward the ruffians around the table, and, snickering or grumbling, they moved away with their pints.
He looked
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